


don't get mad when i'm out of control

by chatspyjamas



Series: the sun won't set on us 'verse [1]
Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: 2015 NHL Entry Draft, Break Up, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Multi, Non-Linear Narrative, POV Outsider, but blatant sexual tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-05
Updated: 2018-01-05
Packaged: 2019-02-28 12:57:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,661
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13271907
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chatspyjamas/pseuds/chatspyjamas
Summary: Time is what people recommend for rejection, or breakups, or whatever-this-was, right? But it’s kind of dawning on Dylan that maybe this not-moving-on business with Mitch and Connor consists of still hooking up.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> (A prequel, of sorts. Can be read as a stand-alone. Context for the sun won't set on us 'verse)

_(October 2016)_

Leon steps into the kitchen and is immediately greeted by loud, thumping music. It’s just as hot as it is outside, thanks to countless doors and windows being open, and his shirt sticks slightly to his back with sweat -- it's overall unpleasant, but nothing a cold beer can't fix. 

There’s a crowd of younger guys standing around nursing drinks and laughing, and Leon’s relieved to see that Connor’s a part of the group. It would really do him well to loosen up, to hang out with people his own age without worrying, Leon thinks, and it seems like Marner agrees.

“Oh, we’re gonna get you _so wasted_ tonight.” He’s promising, throwing his hands out to emphasize his point. “So, so drunk.” Leon would assume that Marner was already drunk if he hadn’t met him before and learned he gets that way in a group, at least around Connor -- eager for attention and dramatically loud and showy.

“Yeah?” Connor replies, quirking an eyebrow.

“ _Yeah_.” Marner practically purrs, running fingers up the back of Connor’s neck to tangle them in his hair. Connor presses into it, slightly, and Marner’s smile turns into something bordering on lustful.

Oh.

Leon averts his eyes. It feels deeply personal, intimate, and he shifts uncomfortably near the door, unnoticed. That’s… something of a revelation. He’d thought Marner’s offer of a threesome was a joke the first time they’d met, especially considering Marner’s implication that they had _experience_ , and besides -- even if it wasn’t, how good could it really have been, with two literal teenagers? And yet… their movements are loaded with intention, nothing like the inexperienced, awkward fumbling that he’d imagined. He pushes it out of his mind and heads to the cooler to get another drink so he can leave.

The next time he’s passing through the kitchen, they seem considerably drunker -- Marner has been hoisted onto the counter, Connor between his legs, and this time Leon figures he should stay in case things get out of hand (which, by the looks of it, is a very real possibility). They’ve attracted a small crowd of spectators, and Leon takes a second to thank the hockey gods that they decided to leave the bar for a more private house. Marner is gesturing with his hands, a drunken flush high on his cheekbones while Connor stares not-too-subtly at his mouth, and Leon gets closer so he can hear what he’s saying.

“--lick the salt, take the shot, and then get the lime.”

Connor’s eyes dart down to Marner’s neck, seemingly unprompted, then back up again with a grin. “Seems easy enough.”

Leon sees a row of three shots lined up, the salt, and the lime and very carefully avoids rolling his eyes. It seems fitting, really, based on Marner’s earlier tendency for theatrical displays. They really are young, if this is how they’re seeking entertainment during tonight’s celebration. His attention snaps back when someone whistles lowly -- Marner is sucking on the skin of Connor’s hand, near his thumb. He takes his time, nipping playfully at the tip of Connor’s thumb as he pulls away to take the shot, making eye contact and -- jesus. Connor’s gaze is intense the same way it is right before he scores an OT goal, all concentrated intensity focused on Marner as he bites down on the lime.

“See? Nothing to it.” Marner says, turning redder under his gaze. Leon understands the feeling. “Where do you want it?” He asks, tone light and teasing, and Connor doesn’t hesitate before leaning in to lick a hot stripe over his collarbone before dusting salt over the exposed skin.

“Good choice.” Marner sounds considerably more breathless as he grabs the lime, pressing it between his lips.

Connor nods, needing no further instruction, descending on Marner’s neck with intent -- Leon knows he isn’t imagining the way Mitch squirms under him, the way Connor spends a bit longer than strictly necessary chasing the salt. He pulls up, mouth red, and takes the shot, grimacing at the taste. He glances at the counter, seeking the lime, and Marner grins -- exposing the lime’s rind like a cheesy grin. Connor lets out a surprised laugh.

“That’s cheating.” Connor complains, unbothered.

“Come ‘n get it.” Marner’s voice is muffled around the lime, and Connor leans in to kiss him, open and messy. Leon’s view is blocked by their heads until he sees Connor draw back, significantly more beat-up lime held victoriously between his teeth.

“One more?” Marner offers, and Connor nods decisively, pushing him back to lie down on the counter, pulling up his shirt to expose pale muscle. Marner goes easily, shifting to let Connor pull his shorts lower on his hips, and he grins at the spectators before returning his attention to Connor.

That’s -- wow. It’s probably a good thing that Marner has older guys on the team to keep him in check, Leon thinks, because these exhibitionistic tendencies are going to lead to situations Leon doesn’t care to think about.

“Ballsy.” Marner says appraisingly, stomach jumping under Connor’s administrations as he sets the shot up -- tequila in his navel, line of salt in the dramatic hollow of his hip.

Connor meets Marner’s eyes one last time. Marner’s breath hitches and he chokes back a shout, jerking as Connor scrapes his teeth over his hip, tongue swirling, teasing. He knocks back the tequila with ease, and Marner sits up, his eyes following the long line of his throat. There's no delay to grabbing the fruit from Marner’s lips-- he's evidently too distracted to fight for it this time.

Connor looks smug, eyes bright, and Marner sits up, shirt falling back down over his stomach as he breathes loudly, sucking his lower lip into his mouth. Someone really needs to have a talk with him, about subtlety and public image, but that someone isn’t going to be Leon, not tonight, because Connor is helping Mitch off the counter with an obvious goal in mind as they say their goodbyes.

“I think we’re gonna head out for tonight.” Mitch says to someone, satisfied, and he flounces out of the kitchen, Connor close behind. When he passes, Marner casts a wink in Leon’s direction that Leon isn’t oblivious enough to think wasn’t intended for him. Connor glances at Leon, slowing down slightly, and it just seems so obvious that he’s looking for approval that Leon yields his hesitation.

“Don’t do anything risky.” Leon says, and mentally smacks himself, because, really, they left ‘risky’ behind a long time ago, heading steadily into ‘danger’ territory, but Connor relaxes and manages a smile, looking far younger than Leon has ever seen him. There’s no denying the small part of him that thinks the risk is worth it, just to see his captain happy for the night.

*

_(January 2016)_

The draft has been over for ages, but PR still has them doing media together whenever they can, an NHL-rookies-do- something video. Dylan is just happy to be here, hanging out with his buddies, doesn’t really care what they have to do -- meeting kids and fans are a bonus, of course, even if it’s a bit awkward. Mitch and Connor also seem excited to be together again, and it’s just like it was leading up to the draft. Exactly like it, actually, down to the miniscule detail of all the extra touching crap.

Dylan’s probably better equipped to recognize it than most -- he himself tapped out of that a long time ago, didn’t want to deal with it when it got messy (and it would’ve gotten _so much worse_ , Dylan _knows_ ) -- it’s just that he kind of assumed they’d stopped too? Not that he was dictating their lives or anything, but he figured the flirting would be left at the draft with the sex stuff, and they’d all move on.

Connor, evidently, has not moved on. And yeah, okay, it’s not very bros to think that your buddy is looking hot in gray shorts snug over his hips, hips that you kinda can’t stop looking at? But it’s a whole other thing to be touching him all over, like you can’t get enough of it, and that’s what Connor’s doing, so. Dylan is definitely winning in the moved-on department.

Dylan knows Mitch well enough to know he’s preening under all the attention. All the obnoxious gym mirror selfies captioned ‘ _makin gainz_ ’ from Mitch have apparently been actual documentation of a strenuous workout regimen, if the way his shoulders now fill out his shirt is any indication. But really, Connor _cannot seem to keep his hands away_ \-- and Mitch isn’t discouraging it, seems to be enjoying it quite a bit, so maybe Mitch hasn’t really moved on, either.

Dylan tries not to feel too bad about that, knows Mitch blames himself for the way things ended up with the three of them (even though _Dylan_ was the one who freaked out), but he’d been hoping that time would help him past it. Time is what people recommend for rejection, or breakups, or whatever-this-was, right? But it’s kind of dawning on him that maybe this not-moving-on business with Mitch and Connor consists of still hooking up.

After the shoot is over, and everyone’s all over the place cleaning up, Dylan allows himself to think on it more (less chance of the cameras catching anything, something _Connor_ didn’t seem too concerned about). So, alright, he’s jealous that he’s missing out, that much is obvious, but then again, maybe he’s not. Maybe they’re just teasing each other, or being their normal friend-brand of cuddly.

Dylan looks up and realizes that everyone else, save a few PR people, have left. Whoops. He hurries into the hallway, not wanting to be roped into doing more media, at least not without Connor and Mitch present -- and, surprise surprise, they’re nowhere to be seen. One of the doors at the end of the hallway is propped open a crack, and Dylan has a feeling he knows exactly where Connor and Mitch are. He pops his head in despite the rising sense of foreboding.

And -- yeah. They’re leaning against a shelf, making out. Connor’s hands are up Mitch’s shirt, which, _okay_ , but then Mitch stuffs a hand down Connor’s shorts, and _alright,_ they’re really doing this on a media day. Connor groans lowly into Mitch’s mouth, because he’s always the one who makes the fucking dumb noises, and here’s where Dylan would chirp him for it, but he doesn’t, because he doesn’t do this anymore. Mitch just presses his lips together, the corners of his mouth twitching in amusement, and smiles into the kiss.

“Something’s sticking me, let me just--” Mitch says, pulling away just enough to rearrange himself against the shelf.

There’s a loud crash of something falling to the ground, and they both jump, nearly losing their balance as they stumble together into the nearby wall, Mitch’s hand still down Connor’s pants even through their stifled giggles.

“Shut up, shut up, they’ll hear us.”

“Stop laughing, you’re _so loud_ \--”

Dylan sighs, backing out of the room, and resigns himself to keeping watch to ensure his stupid friends don’t get walked in on having a quickie and very carefully does not listen for anymore noises. He’s not _wistful_ , not exactly _regretting_ his decision to stop messing around, but even though he knows it was the smart thing to do -- the right thing, even, -- being the rational one really sucks.

*

_(June 2015)_

McDavid and Strome were even more codependent up close, if such a thing was even possible, and with Marner added to the mix, it was like watching a group of clingy freshmen that hadn’t quite learned how not to be starstruck around each other. Seriously, it was getting ridiculous -- this was the _draft_ , not an ideal time to imprint on each other like baby birds, but apparently they hadn’t gotten the memo that they’d probably hardly see each other after this season-- and if they did, it would be as rivals. Just watching them is enough to make Jack want to knock some sense into them before they get exposed to the harsh realities of NHL fame.

It was almost like they're incredibly cliquish, but Jack didn’t think that was quite right. They weren’t _un_ friendly towards others, more like _overwhelmingly_ friendly with each other. He could hardly turn around without getting an eyeful of some ridiculous bullshit, like the time he unwittingly turned back in his seat on the bus and was treated with the sight of Marner with his hands up Strome’s shirt that quickly descended into a literal tickle fight. Jack didn’t turn around again, but he might’ve snapped a few incriminating photos when Strome, jerking away, literally fell out of his seat and into the aisle, flat on the ground as McDavid made the ugliest nasal laugh Jack had ever heard.

Like he said. Completely ridiculous.

Even when they’re all the way in Florida, where it’s disgustingly hot _and_ nature-y, they manage to act the complete opposite of NHL-ready athletes, messing around and shoving each other in front of media and people that will ultimately decide their futures. But somehow it _works_ , comes off as boyishly charming, the way they’re rottenly enthralled by whatever activity they have them doing, even if that activity is _holding a fifty pound snake_ . Marner has been nodding along attentively to the zoologist’s speech and volunteers immediately to wind it around his neck -- no sense of mature conduct _or_ self-preservation, apparently. Jack just hopes he doesn’t die or get some sort of snake disease just to get a fucking selfie with an anaconda.

Jack gladly passes on getting close to a giant alligator, and apparently misses the trio convincing Crouse to _eat a worm_ \-- which, _thankfully --_ but _jesus christ_ does it rub Jack the wrong way, the way they can draw people in with promises of entertainment through sheer dumbassery. Maybe Jack is just jaded, because Noah just looks at him like he’s insane when he tries to bring it up.

It doesn’t make him any less bitter about it, though. It was like they weren’t taking it seriously, because while it didn’t apply to McDavid, Strome and Marner were somehow able to act like it wasn’t driving them insane, how every interview felt like they were being asked to justify being drafted among the same ranks as The Next Great One -- how it was clear that the interviewer was simply killing time before getting to interview McDavid. They just didn’t seem to care, were _happy_ for him, like good people _should_ be, and, well. Jack was not.

McDavid couldn’t even bother to make it back to their room last night, had probably fallen asleep doing god-knows-what in Strome and Marner’s room. Jack hadn’t slept well, either, because the streets were loud and the walls were thin _and he was pretty sure someone on the floor above them was getting it on, like, all of last night based on the rhythmic thumping._ Okay, so Jack was grouchy, sleep-deprived, and maybe a little sexually frustrated, but like _hell_ was he going to be late just because McDavid couldn’t get his ass out of bed. He slams his fist on the door to Strome’s room, as loud as possible, and there’s a muffled thump and groan from the other side.

Feeling vindicated, Jack feels perfectly comfortable raising his voice -- “Get the _fuck up_ , breakfast is already over--”, and the door swings open to reveal a shirtless, sleep-rumpled Strome.

“What,” he yawns, and Marner joins him, sagging into his side with lines pressed into his cheek from his pillow. Strome tucks an arm over his shoulder, and together they paint a picture of drowsy vulnerability, not concerned about being in a hotel hallway while half-dressed.

“Morning, Eichs,” Marner greets sleepily. Jack very pointedly does _not_ fret, because while they’re both in various states of undress roughly _10 minutes before they need to be ready_ , they aren’t any younger than him and should therefore, in theory, have their shit together.

“We have an 11 o’clock departure, tell McDavid to get his ass back to our room so he can change.” Jack tries to sound angry, he really does, but their current states are just making him worry about their ability to actually function.

“Tell him yourself.” Strome grouses, bitchy as hell, and Marner elbows him.

“Con,” Marner calls behind him, stepping back, and McDavid makes an answering disgruntled noise into a pillow, and --

“Whoa whoa whoa, what the hell?!” Jack startles, pushing into the room to find an honest-to-god pillow fort in the middle of a gigantic mess.

“Cuddle puddle.” Marner supplies helpfully as Jack looks around the room, gaping at the clothes strewn everywhere and one unused bed suspiciously stripped of its sheets.

Oh, god, even _they_ were getting more action than Jack was, cuddling or whatever else. (Sure, it was with each other, but still. It was the principle of the matter.) He does not think about if they made any of the noises from last night. That would be, among other things, _terrible_ hotel etiquette, and this already is.

“You can’t just leave it like this, housecleaning has to clean this up!” Jack protests, gesturing to the room. McDavid is finally sitting up, hair sticking every which way, and it looks even stupider than usual.

“We were going to tip.” Strome says defensively, and Jack has to stop himself from throwing his hands in the air in exasperation.

“Canadian manners, yeah _right_ ,” He grumbles, already reaching to put the room in some kind of order. McDavid, now fully awake and looking properly chastised, _as he should be_ , hurries out of the room, hopefully to get changed.

Strome and Marner are surprisingly helpful, and they manage to get the room relatively tidy together. Marner haphazardly folds a giant comforter, corners barely aligned and looks up with a smile. Jack doesn’t think he can hold back a sigh, maybe some choice words, but Strome beats him to the punch.

“That looks like a four year old folded it with their feet.” Strome says, completely deadpan, and Marner makes an offended sound before shoving the lumpy blanket at his face, apparently trying to smother him. Jack hides a laugh at Strome’s flailing arms and Marner’s gleeful asphyxiation attempts.

“ _Get dressed_ .” Jack stresses, striding towards the door to go back to his room. It’ll be a miracle if they get to the lobby on time, in -- _dammit_ , five minutes ago. He hurries downstairs and pointedly rolls his eyes when they stumble into the foyer minutes later, looking harried. _If they’re the future of the NHL, everyone's doomed._


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Connor doesn’t really like psychoanalyzing himself, but he’s noticed that he doesn’t really ever say no -- to Mitch, to anyone. He tries not to think too hard about what it means.

( _July 2015)_

The annual Strome street hockey game was a huge success, Ryan thinks, even if his team still managed to lose with Mitch Marner as the opposing goaltender. It was sweet seeing Dylan carelessly fooling around with new friends, still high on going third overall, and Ryan was happy for him, even though they were weird as hell together. 

“I can’t believe I got hit in the mouth,” Mitch whined, angling for sympathy. “Gonna kiss it better?” He suggested, and Dylan just laughed at him, engulfing him in another OT-winner hug.

They stuck to each other like glue through dinner, not that Ryan was watching for it, and stepped outside onto the porch as Mitch waited to be picked up. The screen door was closed, which did little to hide their conversation -- Ryan didn’t mean to eavesdrop, really, just overheard on his way to his room, but he slows down to hear their voices anyway. So sue him. He wants to know what they’re talking about, is curious if it has anything to do with how Dylan came out to him earlier this summer.

“I’m gonna miss you, Dyls.” That’s Mitch, and he must be with --

“I’ll miss you and Davo too, Marns.” Dylan replies, fond.

“Yeah, but like. I’m gonna miss you especially, miss hooking up with _you._ ” And, yes, it feels good to be right, but Ryan really should not be hearing this. He moves to leave, go upstairs while they figure it out, but stops in his tracks when he hears Dylan go completely quiet. That’s -- that’s a bad sign. Dylan is normally easygoing, agreeable, but when something really bothers him, his emotions flare up and things get ugly, _fast_.

“Marns,” Dylan says, and Ryan can hear the frown in his voice.

Mitch continues talking, not picking up on whatever line he crossed. “Come on, don’t tell me you don’t know what I mean. The sex -- it’s so good, we’re so _good_ together--” he wheedles, and Ryan wants to stop him, knows the playfully light tone in his voice will just push Dylan further.

“But we’re _not_ , Marns, not _together_ \--” Dylan stresses, and Mitch finally stops, realizing the mood has shifted.

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m sorry, I know.” He says, trying to brush it off, but Dylan starts talking again, and it’s louder than before.

“This isn’t-- we’re not in a _relationship_ , that’s not what this is--” Dylan is insisting, and Mitch tries to talk over him.

“I said _sorry,_ I lost myself for a second, got confused--”

“Bullshit. Confused is not _feelings_ , Marns, not fooling yourself that that’s what this is--” Dylan sounds frustrated, getting angry --  “God, how much of a asshole do you think I am?” Dylan raises his voice, and Mitch rises to meet it. Ryan is reminded of the fights they’d had when they were still convinced they were enemies. This is so much worse.

“ _I don’t_ \--That’s not what-- Fuck you, I’m not _fooling myself_ , it just hurts less sometimes--” Mitch snaps, finally rising to Dylan’s bait, and it’s all over from there.

“That’s not what fucking friends _are,_ who the _hell_ do you think I am, someone who’d willingly let you hurt yourself just to get some?!”

“ _No_ , fuck no, I’m sorry I said _anything at all-_ -”

“That’s not the fucking _problem_ , Mitch, I-- I can’t deal with this right now.” Dylan is practically shouting now, but he's stopping himself, trying to reel it in. _Let him,_ Ryan thinks.

“You can’t fucking leave it like this--” Mitch protests, incredulous and angry, and that’s that. Dylan explodes, unable to completely reel in his temper.

“It’s _over_ , then, how’s that? Get someone else to play these fucking games with, I’m _out_.” The screen door rattles in its frame as Dylan storms inside, not giving Ryan a second glance. Ryan gets a glimpse of Mitch as he moves to slip upstairs (it's his last chance to pretend he didn’t hear any of it), and wishes he didn’t. Mitch’s eyes are red, and his anger is visibly seeping away into sadness.

A soft and anguished “ _Fuck_.” follows him on his way to his room, and Ryan’s stomach twists in sympathy.

He acts carefully cheerful around Dylan for the rest of the week, and breathes a silent sigh of relief when he starts smiling again.

*

_(November 2017)_

“He lives! I haven’t heard from you in forever, dude, what’s your deal?” Connor gets a face full of Mitch Marner all up in his camera, and can’t hold back a grin.

“I’ve been sick, you know that. And Stromer’s been going through some stuff.” He says, offhand, and freezes slightly as Mitch reflexively stiffens.

“Oh.”

“Not, you know, anything secret. He’s just feeling bad. The usual.” Connor clarifies, but Mitch stays quiet.

“He doesn’t… he doesn’t tell me about stuff anymore.” Mitch says softly, sadly.

Connor bites his lip. _Oops_.

He’d been there for the Dylan freak-out, can still remember the way his stomach dropped when he’d picked up the phone to hear Mitch’s small “I fucked up, Con,”, his friend’s voice thick with tears. Consoling Mitch had been a circus -- Connor hadn’t been sure of what to do, what to say (doesn’t exactly know, even now, if his version of help did more harm than good).

It took weeks before it got any better at all-- they’d had to split up and move, Dylan to Arizona and himself to Edmonton, and _his two best friends weren’t even talking_. He remembers aching at the sound of Mitch’s sobs, at the sound of his breath coming far too fast and loud over the phone while mentally kicking himself for not being physically there to console him. Frankly, it had been exhausting and miserable for all of them, sorting through this mess while dealing with the stress of being in the NHL and trying to earn spots on their teams, and Connor is glad it’s over. Well, as over as it can be.

It was almost two years ago, but Connor doesn’t think their problems ever really went away. Dylan’s still afraid of attachment, if not more so, and Mitch is still _terrified_ of being lonely. They’re not the same people as they were at the draft, which is a blessing, but that also means there’s nothing holding them together anymore-- just bitter memories pushing them apart.

“He’s… he’s not mad, or anything. You guys made up, and you’re both over it.” Connor reminds softly, unsure of what to say. Mitch nods again, the motion jerky.

“Yeah, I know. He’s just-- different with me now. I fucked up.” He says glumly, and Connor acutely misses the group video chats they’d have with Dylan, before everything’d gotten twisted and _hard_. He knows they should seriously talk about where Mitch went wrong, about his tendency to crash and burn and just abandon ship, none the wiser but all the more hurt, but Connor can’t stop thinking about how Mitch had begged him not to admonish him, how he’d sworn he’d learned his lesson, all _please please don’t you get mad too, just comfort me_. And, well. He didn't.

Connor doesn’t really like psychoanalyzing himself, but he’s noticed that he doesn’t really ever say no-- to Mitch, to anyone. He tries not to think too hard about what it means.

“Change of topic,” Connor declares, and is gratified to see Mitch’s shoulders slump with relief. “You wanted to do something before the game?”

“Oh! Yeah!” Mitch’s entire face brightens, and he gets his scheming face on, the one Connor knows is nearly always a terrible sign, but he’s learned enough to go along with it.

“You know how pregame blowies are like, good luck?”

Connor stares. It’s a surprise to say the least, since they haven’t hooked up since Mitch was on the rebound from Dylan, acting like he had something to prove, and especially not since Mitch grew this _thing_ for Matthews.

Which -- that ended in tears. Again. It’s like reliving a bad dream, not even considering how _Mitch_ must feel about it, so. Connor’s not feeling particularly charitable towards Matthews, right now.

“...I’m not helping you beat us, Mitch.” Connor says, deadpan.

“I’ll do you, then. C’mon, I haven’t gotten some in _forever_.” _Since Auston_ , is what they both hear, and Connor tries in vain to remember the last time he told Mitch Marner _no._

 _(_ It's been a while. _)_

Looks back at Mitch, who is doing a fairly poor job of concealing the desperate edge to the cheerfulness he’s maintaining.

 _Screw it_ . It’s undeniably a good time, if not a _great_ time-- something Connor doesn’t often get, and rebound sex is probably something Mitch could really use. Not to mention that Connor wouldn’t mind spite-ing Matthews a bit. He’s tired of seeing Mitch hurt.

“Anything for you, Mitch.” Connor pitches his voice higher to make up for the time he took to agree, clutching his heart like they’re proclaiming their undying love for each other instead of agreeing to rushed blowjobs whenever they’re in the same town. That’s got to be distracting enough, right? It has the desired effect of making Mitch blink, surprised, before sticking out his tongue in retaliation.

Connor smiles to himself as Mitch clears his throat, grinning and rubbing his hands together like a super villain. “Okay, so. The plan is….”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you got this far, thank you! Comments are greatly appreciated!  
> I'd love to hear your thoughts about characters' portrayal in this. There's redemption to be had.


End file.
